


Home

by starlight95



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Season/Series 03, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight95/pseuds/starlight95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted to go where he belonged.<br/>He wanted to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This song(fic) is dedicated to the legendary return of our 21st century sleuth, Sherlock Holmes and a gift (if it's worthy enough to be called gift...) to the fandom who waits! This isn't my first fic, but it is my first Sherlock fic, so if he goes a little too emotional, that's because I am used to writing emotional fics XD I'm all for constructive critics and advices! #SherlockLives!

Sherlock’s eyes flickered open and his brain functioned back to work almost immediately after a few hours of fitful sleep. He once again registered the fact that he was alone and quiet far from his hometown—as he always did for the last two years. Away from London, from crime scenes, from his flat, and from his flatmate.

He had practically traveled all over the world; from Paris to Tibet to Persia and back again, but he never once landed his feet on England. He had been in Paris for some times now, enjoying the views of glistening snows and glowing lights of the city. Contrary to popular belief, he did enjoy those kind of things.

The change of surrounding helped a bit (at least he had more people to observe), but standing on the balcony of the place he stayed in every night for inconsistent amount of time had become one of a few habits he developed after he faked his death. His mind would race still, but it kept coming back to one thing: home.  At first, he had refused for the sentiment to enter his precious brain, but who was he kidding? There was no other place that was even close to being a home rather than his flat at Baker Street.  At this time of the year, the mantelpiece would always be filled with warm, crimson fire. Windows were closed and snow frost would cover it. He would start wearing fleece slippers, and John—

John.

What was he doing now? He heard from Mycroft that he had moved out of Baker Street but kept the place clean and Sherlock’s things neat. He’d visit Mrs. Hudson once a week to have a cup of tea and reassured her that he was fine.

_Another summer day_  
 _Has come and gone away_  
 _In Paris and Rome_  
 _But I wanna go home_

Mycroft also mentioned that John always visited Sherlock’s grave by the time he was finished chatting with their former landlady. Every week, for two years. At the end of that particular conversation with Mycroft, his brother had gone through the fine line between ration and sentiment by stating that John missed him.

He snarled at Mycroft over the phone, but he desperately wanted John to know that he missed him too. Being a Sherlock Holmes, he was able to maintain focused and spent his time observing, researching, browsing through the big album that is new people and new places; he even wrote a book, disguised as a Norwegian. But these million new things were still a notch under John’s influence to him.  How John Watson could come so close to his hard shell was beyond him. If he was anyone else, he would’ve said it was fate.

But then again, Sherlock Holmes never believed in _fate_.

_Maybe surrounded by_  
 _A million people_  
 _I still feel all alone_  
 _Just wanna go home_  
 _I miss you, you know_

Sherlock took one last deep breath before he leaped out of his uncomfortable bed. It was a fitful sleep indeed, if the tangled sheets and blanket were any indicators.

Breakfast? No, not today. He wondered what he should do (it’s a new skill he’d learnt along the way; calmly _wonder_ ). His gaze flew across the room and landed on the mantelpiece. A stack of letters was stabbed with a knife, the same way it was in 221B. There was only one difference, though: most of them were unsent letters. Some of them weren’t even completed yet.

He wrote those letters in the middle of the night. When his mind was out of his control, when his heart (lurking there somewhere in the haze of his logic) took away his consciousness, he would pick up a pen and wrote: “John,”.

But he had never sent them in fear of getting attention from what was left of Moriarty’s spider web. He had predicted John’s move if he were to send those letters: no matter how hard he reprimanded John, John would contact him. John would find out where he lived, what he was doing, if he was doing alright, if he needed anything. He would demand _answers,_ and that would give away his position.

Besides, he wasn’t sure the letters were good enough for John to receive. John, who was a total chivalry and romantic (he found out from his e-mails to his girlfriends), would think his letters were cold and too formal. Sherlock wished he could write better, could express his feelings better, but this (unsent letters) would have to do for now.

He pulled out the knife, took the letters, and threw them into the fire. He watched the red angry creature ate the papers and his eyes, those expressive eyes, turned blank.

_I’ve been keeping all the letters_  
 _That I wrote to you_  
 _Each one a line or two_  
 _“I’m fine, baby, how are you?”_

_I would send them but_  
 _I know that it’s just not enough_  
 _My words were cold and flat_  
 _And you deserve more than that_

Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, both hands on his stomach as he stared at nothing. He was wearing his blue dressing gown which he insisted was just comfortable instead of reminding him of home. His phone (a new phone; he left his old one at the rooftop and he had been informed that John was keeping it) dinged and he reached for it. Only one person could have contacted him.

_How are you, brother dear? MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and punched the keypads with his thumbs, irritated.

_Sod off. SH_

Because he didn’t need unnecessary disturbance.

_I bring you news, do you wish to hear it or not? MH_

_What news? SH_

_There’s been a threat, a terrorist threat in London. MH_

_Couldn’t you deal with it yourself? You’re the government. SH_

There was a longer pause.

_No, I’m afraid not. We need you. MH_

He stared at the text. Mycroft rarely declared he _needed_ Sherlock. He decided to clarify.

_In London? SH_

_Yes. MH_

He thought of an appropriate reply.

_Good, it’s dull here. I don’t feel like myself. You will prepare everything, won’t you? SH_

Sherlock could almost see the smirk on Mycroft’s face. Damn, the man knew everything. He knew Sherlock _wanted_ to come back, wanted to go _home_.

_Of course. You will be returning in a week. See you then. MH_

He threw his phone aside, but a few moments later another text came.

_Have you read John’s blog? MH_

He frowned. He had never thought of checking John’s blog. What had he written? Did he decide to believe Sherlock’s declaration that he was a fake that day?

He gave up to his curiosity and opened his (new) laptop. He typed John’s blog address and what he saw was (slightly) expected, but he couldn’t help the shiver that ran down his spine.

_16 th June_

_He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._

John.

For the first time in years of knowing him, Sherlock thought: how can John Watson even be real?

The last days they spent together before he had to leave rushed into his brain. They were famous, they were indulged in good-natured attention, they were having _fun_. And then suddenly everything was snatched away. Everything went wrong in just a few days. What he and John had built together; teamwork, partnership, _friendship_ , had been stolen when he lied unmoving on the pavement.

_And I feel just like_  
 _I’m living someone else’s life_  
 _It’s like I just stepped outside_  
 _When everything was going right_

_And I know just why_  
 _You could not come along with me_  
 _This was not your dream_  
 _But you always believed in me_

“ _I was so alone… And I owe you so much.”_

His whole body itched to just step forward and tell John he wasn’t dead. He was there, watching him, listening to him through the bugs planted on his empty grave. But he knew better not to do that. Everything was ruined enough, he needn’t ruin anymore.

John had cried. It was the first time Sherlock saw John cry. John was crying for him, pleading him to be alive, to give him one more miracle.

Sherlock got up from the couch and walked towards the balcony, just like he had every night. He was suddenly feeling tired. Not the kind of tired for _not_ doing anything. He was tired of being away. Hiding himself, always sneaking, always stealthily made his way through the crowd.

He groaned in frustration and went to pick up his violin. He played and played and played with the thought of home in his mind.

That day, at the cemetery, when John stopped crying and went back to his military stance, he knew John would be strong enough to do it.

But he didn’t know it would be this hard on his part.

_Let me go home_  
 _I’ve had my run_  
 _Baby I’m done_  
 _I gotta go home_

* * *

 

Mycroft Holmes leaned on his omnipresent umbrella as he watched his little brother approached him. He was the same Sherlock all over, though he knew precisely what was missing from him. He smiled and without further adieu opened the car door for him.

Sherlock slid inside and stayed silent even when Mycroft took the seat beside him. “Do you still want to stay at 221B?” he promptly asked.

“Yes.” he replied shortly.

“Very well. John had kept your belongings the way they were when you left.” he added, but he knew Sherlock wasn’t listening, he _couldn’t_ listen. He knew full well that his mind consisted of nothing but _Baker Street. John. 221B. Home._ That’s fine, he thought. His little brother wasn’t one to be easily side-tracked, but two years was enough time.

London was busy, as always, covered in what seemed to be endless fog obscuring one’s view. People were mere shadows and silhouette as their cab tore apart the gray clouds in front of it. How he’d missed all of these. London with its live, its fire in the cold, its dynamic that powered his brain to life.

“I suggest you not to startle Mrs. Hudson too much, though, Sherlock.”

_It’ll all be alright  
I’ll be home tonight_

The car pulled up at where he used to live and when he stepped out of it, he felt alive. Nothing had changed; it was how it used to be two years ago. Sherlock took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

“I’ll leave you be for a while, I’ll come back in an hour or two.”

Sherlock ignored him and pushed the door marked 221B open. His landlady was away, he had the flat all to himself for now. Carrying his small luggage, he took the flight upstairs and calmly stepped inside. When he passed the threshold of the door, he looked up and swept his glance through the empty room.

He could almost imagine John waiting for him on his armchair, smiling at him amicably and saying, “Hello. I made tea; it’s still warm.”

Sherlock Holmes had waited two years to say that he was finally, finally _home again_.

He put his luggage down and smiled to where he imagined his flatmate would be.

“Hello, John.”

_I’m coming back home_

**Author's Note:**

> The song is called "Home" and there are so many lovely version, but my favorite is sung by Michael Buble :D


End file.
